


a matter of missed connections

by beeeskneees



Series: connections missed, connections made [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Frottage, M/M, Rugby Captain John, Unilock, Virgin Sherlock, Wrong Number AU, minimal angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-08-17 02:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8126083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeeskneees/pseuds/beeeskneees
Summary: Hey girl, how are you ;) JW The girl you hit on gave you the wrong number.  She’s either not interested or was too drunk to press the proper buttons. SH---When trying to text a girl he met in a pub, the wrong number John's been given ends up putting him in contact with a mysterious and interesting man who goes by 'SH.'  Bored and young and reckless, John keeps texting, and keeps texting, and keeps texting.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this post](http://freemantm.tumblr.com/post/132636354965/teenlock-headcanon-where-john-hits-on-this-girl).

John had been on an unfortunate losing streak with regard to dating for the past month. Well, it was more like the past year. The past twenty-three years, even. Every girl he tried chatting up was just so unbearably boring. He’d started anticipating nothing more than a one-night stand, because his romantic prospects were—in a word—underwhelming.

Mike had convinced him to go out to a pub by their shared flat, and John was desperate to get a leg over. The girl he was talking to (Sarah? Shannon? Sam?) was nice enough, if a bit dim. She started the conversation by asking after his zodiac sign, and from that point on, he’d mentally checked out.

“Wow, that’s so interesting,” he told her with feigned enthusiasm after a story that was very much not interesting in the slightest. “I didn’t know there were so many different types of birds you could keep as pets.” He imagined trying to have sex with non-stop chirping going on in the background. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but he would make it work if necessary.

Unfortunately, his response seemed to only encourage her more. She was quite passionate about birds, it seemed, and though John usually found it attractive when his partner was passionate about something, that principle clearly didn’t apply with this particular girl. Well, he reasoned, he was just trying to have sex, not marry her. Sex was easier than trying to navigate the mess of relationships with people he was generally only half-sold on. Besides, he was planning on joining the army in a few years, so he hardly saw the point in trying to establish something real now.

Stamford stumbled towards the two of them, and John immediately reached out to steady his friend. “Had a bit too much to drink there?” he asked, taking in the obvious inebriation on his ineffective wingman.

Stamford muttered something unintelligible and nearly tipped over. John was almost grateful for the distraction, even if it meant he would likely need to clean up vomit before the night was over.

He flashed an apologetic smile over at the girl he had been talking to. “Sorry,” he said, “but it looks like I’m going to have to get him home.”

She smiled sympathetically back. “Don’t worry about it,” she replied, her high, thin voice grating on him. She put on what must have been intended as a coy expression and added, “You could text me sometime, maybe, and we could pick up this conversation.”

John felt about ready to die at the thought of having to continue to listen to her ramble on about her boring interests, but he figured it never hurt to try. Perhaps she would end up being the love of his life and they would later reflect on how awkward their first meeting had been. (The truly romantic part of him was convinced that he would simply _know_ when he met the love of his life, if such a thing existed, but there was no harm in making an idiotic dating mistake at his young age.) Still holding Stamford upright with one arm, John used his free hand to search around his pockets for his phone. Once he found it, he pulled it out and passed it over to the girl. “Here,” he said with a stilted smile. “Put your number in, and I’ll text you in the morning.”

She entered her number (not her name, John noticed, and he hoped that he would somehow remember what it was by the time morning came) and handed the mobile back. John winked at her and said, “Cheers,” before ushering Stamford out of the pub, trying desperately to get back to their flat without any vomiting.

\---

True to his word, John texted the number the following morning. Stamford was spending the day, miserable and hung-over, being cared for by his girlfriend, and John felt the sting of being single a bit too prominently right then. He was just desperate enough to try going on a few dates with Bird Girl, as he had taken to calling her mentally.

_Hey girl, how are you ;)_

It was a fairly standard text that had the effect of making him seem interested and flirty while also not revealing that he had no idea what the hell her name was. He was quite proud of himself, and he’d have bragged about it to Stamford had Mike not been laying in bed next to a bucket with his girlfriend stroking his forehead. God, that mental image was terrible, and yet John wanted that so keenly.

His phone pinged, and John frowned down at the response to his text.

_The girl you hit on gave you the wrong number. She’s either not interested or was too drunk to press the proper buttons. SH_

Right. That was perhaps the weirdest rejection he had ever faced. He was a bit peeved about it, actually. It would be one thing to be straightforward with him and admit to having lost interest, but it was an entirely different matter to pretend to be another person in order to turn him away.

_You don’t have to make up a fake persona just to get out of texting me. I won’t be offended if you turn me down._

He decided that Bird Girl was the absolute worst, not that he hadn’t already suspected as much beforehand. He put his phone down, expecting it to just remain silent from that point forward, but instead, it pinged again after only a few seconds.

_I’m a real person, and I’m a man, so I’m clearly not who you were intent on texting. SH_

Then, before John could even really process those words, another text came in.

_She clearly gave you the wrong number at the pub. SH_

John’s heart rate kicked up. How had this person known he’d been at a pub? John started to wonder if maybe he was being stalked, and he tried to tell himself that his excitement was just a manifestation of his body’s fight-or-flight response activating, not because this was the first interesting thing to happen to him since he’d decided on joining the army.  

_How did you know I was at a pub?_

As with the previous texts, the reply was almost immediate.

_I’m not a stalker, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was a fairly easy deduction to make. You clearly got a girl’s mobile number recently, as it’s difficult to text a wrong number otherwise, and the most likely place for you to have met her was in a pub, given your age. SH_

John reread those words a few times, trying to work it out. He supposed he could see how it would be easy to infer that he’d been trying to pull someone new based on how the conversation had started, but there was one thing he didn’t quite understand.

_You can’t possibly know my age without being a stalker._

_You texted, ‘Hey girl, how are you ;)’ That’s a very clear indicator that you’re in your late teens to early twenties. Anyone younger than that likely wouldn’t bother trying to seduce a stranger, and anyone older than that wouldn’t use such a horrible opening line. SH_

John again reread the text a few times, and then suddenly he was smiling. A horrible opening line. He probably should have been offended, but he found himself laughing instead. That progression of thinking was brilliant. All the pieces were there, but he certainly couldn’t have put it all together himself, he was sure. All thoughts of Bird Girl were replaced fully by this clever, interesting stranger.

_That opening line is not terrible. It’s gotten me lucky a few times in the past._

_You’re a regular Casanova. SH_

John laughed again. He could practically hear the dry delivery of that statement, and he decided that he rather liked SH.

_Why do you sign your texts?_

_So that people know it’s me regardless of what phone I’m using. SH_

_Obviously. SH_

_That’s not a bad idea. JW_

It felt a bit dangerous, giving out his initials to some stranger, but John supposed that SH had given his initials first. Besides, of all the JW names in the area, he was sure he was the least remarkable, making it difficult for SH to track him down.

There was no immediate reply to his text, and as interesting as talking to this not-quite-stalker was, John figured he couldn’t force the conversation to keep going without coming off as a bit of a creep himself. He set his phone down and set about cleaning up some of the sick from the inside of the toilet bowl. Half an hour later, he returned, feeling accomplished, and picked up his phone again, only to discover another message waiting for him. He was smiling before he even read it.

_Was I right? SH_

_About what? JW_

_About you trying to pull this girl in a pub and about your age. SH_

John hesitated for only a moment before responding, revealing even more information about himself in what was probably an unwise manner. At least it was keeping him occupied, he reasoned.

_Yeah, you were dead-on. I hit on her in a pub last night, and I’m twenty-three. JW_

Then, thinking about how brilliant SH appeared to be, he sent another text.

_That was pretty clever, you know. JW_

There was a slight delay after that. John wondered if he’d somehow offended SH. He wasn’t sure how that would have been possible, though; if anything, he was paying the man a compliment. Surely that wouldn’t be cause to break off contact. After several long minutes of nothing, his phone pinged.

_It all seemed rather obvious to me. SH_

_Maybe it was obvious, but I don’t know anyone else who could put it together like that. JW_

SH merely deflected the compliment again: _It was nothing. SH_

John didn’t want to keep pushing the issue when praise clearly made SH uncomfortable in some way, so he didn’t reply. Besides, for all he knew, his mystery stranger could have been some fifty-year-old man preying on wrong numbers. While he knew that this was a logical possibility, he couldn’t help but try conjuring up an image of SH as a man his own age, clever and interesting and somehow both a bit arrogant and modest. He imagined Mike and his girlfriend, sitting together on Mike’s bed, and replaced their figures with his own and his imagined version of SH as a young man. God, he was a romantic. It was terrible.

And yet, he still found himself saving the number, wrong as it had been, under the contact name ‘SH.’


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bet you can’t guess what I’m doing right now. JW_
> 
> _I never guess. SH_
> 
> _You guessed about me last time we talked. JW_
> 
> _That was deduction, not guessing. SH_
> 
> _Fine. Bet you can’t deduce what I’m doing right now. JW_

About a week later, John was struck with the impulse to text SH again. Well, fine, it had actually been a constant impulse since their first conversation had ended, but it was only a week later that he finally had a proper excuse to do it.

Some of his rugby mates had roped John into going out to dinner with them after their match. Of course, these particular mates all happened to be dating at the moment, leaving John the only one without a partner in attendance. Bored and feeling out of place, John figured that this was as good a time as any to try to strike up another conversation with SH.

_Bet you can’t guess what I’m doing right now. JW_

The reply was quick. John figured that SH must have kept his phone on him constantly, and he definitely appreciated that promptness right then.

_I never guess. SH_

_You guessed about me last time we talked. JW_

_That was deduction, not guessing. SH_

John smiled down at his phone. Deduction. He was pretty sure that meant it was just an educated guess, but he didn’t press the issue. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he could see Stamford glancing over at him, but he didn’t bother to look up, figuring that Stamford probably thought he was just texting a new romantic interest. John tried not to think about the validity of that assumption.

_Fine. Bet you can’t deduce what I’m doing right now. JW_

_Out at the pub, trying to pull another unsuspecting woman? SH_

_Nope. JW_

_At a party with your friends? SH_

_Close. I’ll give you that. I’m currently the twelfth wheel at dinner with my rugby mates and their partners. JW_

_You haven’t managed to snatch up a girlfriend in this last week, then. SH_

_Afraid not. JW_

_Truly tragic, but what does this have to do with me? SH_

John paused for a moment at that latest text. He had thought that it was obvious that he just wanted to talk, but perhaps he was actually inconveniencing SH. Well, only one way to figure that out, he supposed.

_Nothing. I was just hoping I could use you a distraction from the awkwardness of twelfth-wheeling it. JW_

_I suppose that would be fine. I need a bit of a distraction as well. SH_

_Don’t tell me you’re twelfth-wheeling it too! JW_

_No, definitely not. I’ve got an experiment running, but I need to wait an hour before the reaction will be complete. SH_

An experiment. Odd thing to be doing late on a Friday night. John figured that meant the man was definitely a scientist. Of course, his fears about SH being far too old for him were starting to become uncomfortably prevalent.

_So you’re a scientist? JW_

John worried about the answer. If SH turned out to be older than thirty, this little half-crush might be unworthy of future pursuits. That would certainly be disappointing.

_Something like that. SH_

John rolled his eyes. The man was not giving him anything he could work with. Prat.

_What do you mean by that? JW_

_You clearly thought I was a scientist by profession, but it’s more of a hobby. SH_

_So what is your profession? JW_

_I’m a student. SH_

_Shit_ , John thought. He might have been entirely off about the age thing. Instead of being too old for him, SH might actually be too young, leaving _John_ as the creepy one talking to a very clever kid. Christ, what if he was in secondary school? John felt terrible.

_What sort of student? JW_

_I’m in university. SH_

And John felt himself relax, his guilt dissolving. University-aged. Good. He could work with that. After all, he was university-aged as well. That was definitely manageable, and his fascination was now no longer creepy, nor was SH creepy for continuing to talk to him. The brief emotional rollercoaster that he had gone through while fretting about their respective ages seemed to be dying down now.

_I just turned twenty. I’m not a child. I know that was your concern. SH_

John smiled down at his phone. God, this guy was smart.

_Spot on. And for the record, I only started to worry that you were a child in these last few minutes. Before that, I thought you were an old pervert. JW_

_Incredible as always, though. JW_

Twenty. That was actually not a bad age for SH in comparison to John himself. He would be twenty-four in a few months, but even four years was hardly that big of a difference, especially not with someone as clever as this man appeared to be.

_You’re easily impressed. SH_ , was the next text John received. He couldn’t help but smile again. SH appeared to be confident in his abilities all the time, but when faced with a proper compliment, he deflected the praise. John thought it was rather cute, and he was oddly pleased with himself for having picked up on a few of SH’s habits after so little conversation.

_Hardly_ , he wrote back. _What are you studying? JW_

_Chemistry. SH_

_What, no deduction about what I’m studying to follow that? JW_

_I’d need so much more information than a brief text exchange to deduce your area of study. SH_

John could practically hear the bitterness at being unable to complete a deduction, and he bit his lip to keep himself from giggling outright. Stamford was definitely looking over at him now, but again, John ignored him.

_Medicine. JW_

_You’re going to be a doctor, then. SH_

_Well, an army doctor. I’m looking into joining the military after I complete my studies. JW_

There was a long delay after that, the first real break in their stream of conversation. John wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. There was clearly something about the military that perturbed SH, though he could hardly fathom what it was. Even if SH was aggressively anti-war, surely he would have thought to write out his feelings in a text.

The pause was so long that John actually considered trying to start up a conversation with someone else in order to pass the time, but he ultimately couldn’t bring himself to do so. There was something about SH—perhaps it was the anonymity and inherent danger in that, or perhaps it was the deductions themselves—that made him far more interesting than anyone else in John’s address book. He figured that he would be just as bored texting anyone else he knew as he would be if he simply sat there in silence and watched his teammates bond with the other couples at the table.

He nearly threw his phone across the table in his haste to grab it when he heard the telltale alert coming from it.

_An army doctor. Good profession. SH_

John stared down at the message for a moment, confused. Surely it hadn’t taken SH nearly twenty minutes to write those five words. No, there was something else going on here, something that SH was hiding.

_Are you put off by the military or something? JW_

_No. SH_

_It just took you a long time to respond after I mentioned the army. JW_

_Don’t try to deduce me. SH_

_Ha! So I’m right. You’re getting defensive. JW_

John knew he was on the right track, even as SH responded, _I am not. SH_. There was definitely something going on with SH and the military. John wondered if maybe the man had ever been close to someone who had died during military service, and he felt a bit bad for pressing the issue. But, well, he didn’t feel bad enough to actually _stop_.

_So what is it—got a thing against military men? Or do you not support the fighting of wars or something? JW_

Twelve minutes ticked by. John knew that because he kept obsessively checking his phone every thirty seconds. Christ, he really had gone too far. He should have just listened to that voice in his head telling him to back off, but he’d never been very good at doing that. And now he’d probably ruined things. He sent a quick, _SH? JW_ , but after another five minutes of waiting, he gave up.

He prepared himself to be bored to tears for the remainder of the evening, only to find that everyone was already gathering their things and preparing to leave. John pocketed his phone, surprised at how painless that all had been, save for the end bit.

A slap on the shoulder sent him stumbling as he got up from his seat. He looked up to see Stamford beaming at him.

“You’ve been texting that girl, haven’t you?” Stamford asked. “The one we met at the pub, right?”

John let out a bashful laugh and shook his head down at the ground, not making eye contact.

“She was cute,” Stamford said cheerily.

And she had been cute, but John’s interest in her had only ever been physical. It suddenly struck him that he had no idea what SH looked like. Didn’t even know the man’s real name. There was somehow a deeper connection there, and, Christ, he was getting to be sappy and romantic about someone he barely knew.

“Smiling down at your phone—it’s a good look for you,” Stamford said, and John couldn’t help but agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/kudos are always appreciated! 
> 
> The next chapter will be up within the next 2 weeks, so keep an eye out!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a date is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, sorry I'm so late in updating this! A lot of stuff happened (mostly good) in my personal life these last few weeks, and I've been so swamped that I wasn't able to get to this until just now! Rest assured that this work isn't abandoned, and I appreciate y'all hanging in there! I'll try to be more prompt with the next chapter, and I'm thinking maybe it'll be up the weekend before Thanksgiving.

John had texted SH the day after the rugby dinner, though he had been very careful not to mention the way in which their previous conversation had ended. In fact, he thought it best to steer clear of any of the topics they had discussed in that conversation altogether, just in case. He still wasn’t entirely sure what about the army had caused SH to shut down so drastically, but he wasn’t about to bring it up again and run off the one really interesting thing in his life right then. They continued to talk solidly for fifteen days, during which time John started to feel that he was really getting to know his mysterious conversation partner. For example, John learned that SH hated his brother (and his strained relationship with Harry was then deduced by the hyper-perceptive arse), and that SH took his coffee black with two sugars, and that he did ballet. It wasn’t much, of course, but with how closed off SH seemed to be at any given moment, John felt like he’d really accomplished a great feat even learning that much. Every time his phone buzzed, he made a fool of himself scrambling for it in the hope that it might be SH revealing a bit more of himself before John’s greedy eyes.

Nearly a month into their acquaintance, SH apparently decided to bring things to the next level, which, for him, evidently meant bringing corpses into it.

John opened his phone to discover very gruesome images of a very dead man staring back at him, and he quickly glanced over his shoulder to ensure that he wasn’t being watched, his adrenaline going as he wondered what the hell SH was on about. It was interesting, though; more interesting than his current activity, which involved staring blankly at his textbook in the university library. There were three such pictures, all of the same corpse, all showing different angles. The dead man had discoloration around his mouth, and he rested on a chrome tabletop that made it clear that SH was in the morgue. John waited for five minutes after receiving the pictures, but there was no explanation forthcoming from his hyper-perceptive arse.

_What is this? JW_

The reply was almost immediate, meaning that SH had apparently been waiting around for John to ask questions before revealing anything.

_What would you say this man’s cause of death was? SH_

_Asphyxiation. JW_ , John replied after a brief review of the pictures again, and because he felt that SH might genuinely need clarification on this subject, he added, _But remember that I’m not a practicing physician, and I have no experience examining dead people. JW_

_According to the autopsy report, you’re right. SH_

John frowned down at his phone. He wondered if this was SH’s subtle way of pushing him toward a career doing post-mortems rather than enlisting.

_So what was that? Just some sort of test for me? JW_

_Well, I’d like to go into detective work, and it might be useful to know a doctor. You’re already better than some of the idiots I’ve seen at crime scenes. SH_

And there were his suspicions somewhat confirmed. It was sweet in a way that SH, someone he had never really met, trusted him enough to want to work with him in the future. He was sure he was right in thinking that SH didn’t trust many people, so being one of the obvious few was quite an honour.

_I’d be happy to help on your cases. JW_

Then, feeling the need for honesty, he reluctantly added, _But I will be in the military for about six years, so it might not be very prompt help at first. JW_

As expected, there was no response. Damn, the military really shut SH down. John still couldn’t parse out why that was. Even he knew that it would probably be better not to ask if he had any hope of continuing their conversation, and he really did have a lot of questions now. Besides, he didn’t exactly want to get back to studying, so he figured a change of topic was in order.

_How did you get access to a dead body? JW_

The reply to that was almost immediate. Christ, the man was fickle.

_There’s a girl who works in the cadaver lab who lets me in on occasion. SH_

A girl. Right. John did not like the sound of that. Just because no girl was good enough for SH, he told himself, though even he didn’t believe that lie.

_Who is she? Your girlfriend? JW_

_Hilarious, but no. Girlfriends aren’t my area. SH_

John’s bitterness toward this faceless girl vanished. SH wasn’t interested in girls. Good. That was very good. (He didn’t let himself think about _why_ that was very good.)

_What about boyfriends? Have any of those? JW_

_Not currently, no. SH_

John didn’t miss the fact that SH didn’t claim that boyfriends weren’t his area. He was ridiculously pleased by that. So, his mysterious man was single and gay. Not that it mattered, of course, but John couldn’t deny the way his heart started beating faster with that knowledge.

_What about you? Have you found yourself some other girl to successfully pull? SH_

John realised then that he hadn’t actually tried to pull anyone in about a month. He simply hadn’t felt the need. None of the people he talked to were really very interesting, and only talking to SH seemed to really keep him invested in conversations at all. He was surprised to find that he wasn’t upset by his lack of dates, though it had put more pressure on his hand lately.

_Nope. No girls have really caught my eye recently. JW_

_Good. SH_

John felt his heart kick pleasantly in his chest.

_Good? JW_

The reply came surprisingly quickly, as if SH had been crafting it since he had sent his first message.

_I just meant that you seem too interesting to throw your attention away on some dull girl. SH_

John smirked. So SH liked that he was single as well. That was definitely promising.

_Hm, and I imagine you’d be fine if I paid attention to someone clever and mysterious and captivating. JW_

John was openly flirting, and he wondered if SH would even pick up on it. The several-minute-long pause that followed his message seemed to indicate that he had picked up on it. John was a bit worried that he’d gone too far, but he didn’t let himself dwell on that too much. He could handle a rejection if it came.

_I’d be more than fine with that. SH_

John raised his eyebrows at the message. For some reason, he couldn’t help but read it as being slightly stilted and awkward, especially given the pause that had just occurred. It wasn’t an easy, effortless sort of flirting, apparently, and John found he liked it this way a bit better. Now he knew that SH had taken the time to mull over an appropriate response, and he couldn’t help but smiling like a lovesick fool down at his phone.

_What’s your name? JW_

He pulled his laptop toward him and opened up a new browser window. He wanted to look this kid up online to see if they were even remotely in the same area, or at least if they were close enough to meet. He stared down at his phone in frustration for several long minutes before he finally got a reply.

_Sherlock Holmes. SH_

The name was oddly familiar, and when John looked up Sherlock Holmes on Facebook, he discovered that the kid looked familiar as well. John tried to place that (beautiful, breathtaking, ethereal) face, and he finally decided that Sherlock Holmes looked a bit like that scrawny kid who hung out behind the pitch during rugby matches. John had never gotten a good enough look at that guy (other than some shameless staring at his arse) to be sure, though. He pictured that arse on Sherlock, who looked so gorgeous John could hardly breathe, and then he had to take a few deep, calming breaths to prevent spontaneous combustion. Christ, he was smitten with this guy.

_Odd name, but it suits you. I’m John Watson. Pleasure to meet you, Sherlock Holmes. JW_

_Captain of the rugby team? I thought it might be you based on your initials and your interest in medicine, but I couldn’t be sure that we went to the same university. SH_

John smiled down at his phone. He was willing to bet that Sherlock was kicking himself for not making that deduction earlier just for the sake if impressing John.

_Yep, it’s me. JW_

So now Sherlock knew who he was, and John was only slightly nervous about that. He was captain of the rugby team, after all, and a future doctor. He was fairly confident that he’d be quite a catch. And Sherlock seemed interested enough, though it would be shocking if someone as model-gorgeous as Sherlock would want to be seen next to John, but he knew he wasn’t bad-looking at least.

Feeling bold, John texted, _We should meet up in person. JW_

He hadn’t been expecting an immediate reply. He’d gotten pretty good at figuring out when Sherlock would hesitate and when he wouldn’t. He was feeling ridiculously proud of himself for that. Yet another bit of Sherlock’s personality that he was slowly discovering after a frankly ridiculous amount of texting.

_That would be fine. SH_

John snorted at the text.

_I can practically feel the enthusiasm. JW_

_Oh, John, I can’t wait to meet up with you! SH_

_Better? SH_

John huffed out soft laugh, even though he felt his stomach swoop at the words.

_That’s more like it. JW_

_Tomorrow. Speedy’s café. Noon. SH_

A quick search for Speedy’s café showed that it was only ten minutes from his flat, a perfectly acceptable distance to travel to meet a near-stranger. (He would have truthfully traveled for upwards of an hour if necessary.) John was a bit surprised at how quickly this was all moving, but he supposed he couldn’t complain. Truthfully, he didn’t want to wait around any longer before meeting up with Sherlock. It felt like the start of something, and he was eager to jump headfirst into it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and John go on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this was three weeks instead of two, but that's still more on target than I was last time! Sorry about that, but I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> There's like some minor angst in this toward the end, but I promise this will be resolved in the next chapter!

John rarely put very much effort into his dates. That was mainly because he was frankly never all that sold on his dates to begin with, and taking someone out was generally just a prelude to sex in his current stage of life. Most people his age, he’d decided, just weren’t captivating enough to make him want anything more than that.

In spite of his past track record, though, John found himself spending a full hour getting ready before meeting SH—Sherlock. John kept Sherlock’s profile up on his laptop and kept obsessively swiping through the boy’s pictures as he tried to decide on a nice-but-still-sort-of-casual outfit for this not-quite-date. God, but Sherlock was cute. Beautiful, too. John wanted to look at least moderately good in comparison. Even though it seemed like Sherlock already knew who he was, he felt that it was important to make a good impression.

After readying himself and warding off several texts from Mike (all including various forms of, ‘You have a date, don’t you?’ and, ‘Who is she?’), John ended up getting to Speedy’s ten minutes early. As he entered the place, he was forced to check his watch again and confirm that, yes, it was still slightly before noon, and, yes, he was early—a fact that seemed dubious because Sherlock Holmes was already there, seated at a table off to the side.

John smiled and approached him, stomach swooping nervously. “Been waiting long?” he asked as he seated himself across from Sherlock, gesturing to the now-empty mug sitting in front of him.

Sherlock started at John’s voice, as if he hadn’t been expecting to hear it. In fact, Sherlock’s eyes had been glued to his phone up until a minute prior. He cast a glance down at his empty mug and grimaced, clearly knowing that it had given away the fact that he had indeed gotten there ridiculously early. “Not that long,” he still tried to claim, but it was clear that he knew that neither of them believed him.

John laughed and tried not to stare too hard. Sherlock was wearing dark fitted jeans and an equally fitted charcoal shirt. His hair fell in loose curls over his forehead. His eyes were piercing and blue-green-grey. His lips were plush and delectable. He was even more beautiful up close, and John was surprised that Sherlock didn’t post a million pictures of himself online every day just for the sake of appeasing the public.

John sat down opposite Sherlock and folded his hands together on the table. Sherlock still looked irritated with his empty mug, and it was amusing enough that he had to laugh. “Aren’t you proud of me for deducing you like that?” John asked.

Sherlock huffed out a little laugh as well. “Do I not look like I’m bursting with pride right now?” he quipped.

John hated that Sherlock’s personality was rather sweet in person as well, because it made it that much more difficult to get a grip on this big-and-growing-bigger crush. “Want another cup?” John asked, gesturing to the aggrieving mug. “I should probably get some for myself.” They were ostensibly meant to be having coffee, judging by Sherlock’s choice of meeting location.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed for a moment before he moved to stand up. “Right, I suppose I can do that,” he said.

John immediately held his hand out and stood up so quickly he nearly toppled over his chair. “No, no,” he said. “I got it. It’s on me.”

The furrow between Sherlock’s brows got deeper, and John wanted to kiss him right then, and wasn’t _that_ an odd thought. “I’m perfectly capable of paying for my own coffee,” Sherlock reminded him, talking to him like he was being thick on purpose.

John grinned back. “I know, but it wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me to let you do that.”

With Sherlock’s cheeks now a charming shade of pink, and with that furrow in his brow still there, John went up and ordered them two fresh cups. When they came up, he realised that he’d forgotten how Sherlock took his coffee, something that had been revealed during their text conversation but had slipped through his memory. Damn. He’d been doing so well at deducing Sherlock. John made sure to grab several packets of sugar and cream in order to account for any possible preference as he brought their drinks back to the table.

“Here you go,” John said, setting one steaming mug in front of Sherlock. He took up his seat again and dumped all of the sugar and cream onto the table between them.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said sardonically. “How did you know that I prefer my coffee with seven creams and twelve sugars?”

John smiled, amused. “I clearly have a talent for deducing you.”

Sherlock merely hummed in reply, neither confirming nor denying that statement. He added two sugars to his mug, and John made note of that so that in the future he wouldn’t need to search through his texts to find Sherlock’s coffee preference. He imagined how impressed Sherlock would be on their second date when John got his coffee order perfect right away, and, wow, he couldn’t believe he was actually imagining a second date when he wasn’t even sure that this was their first. He really was in over his head here. He had never gotten this invested in someone he’d pulled, though he supposed he hadn’t really pulled Sherlock so much as accidentally meeting him and then refusing to let him be.

“So,” John said, watching as Sherlock wrapped his hands around his mug as if trying to absorb its warmth, “tell me a little about yourself.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, though his expression wasn’t unkind. “You already know a little bit about me,” he pointed out.

“I know you’ve watched me play rugby before,” John said, testing out his theory that Sherlock had indeed been the slender, pretty man who John had spotted looking over at the pitch during some of their matches.

To his surprise, instead of merely confirming this, Sherlock’s cheeks turned pink again, and this time the colour was climbing up his (frankly beautiful) neck as well. It was incredibly endearing. “It’s interesting to watch the methods by which male aggression is released through sport,” he said, clearly taking care to sound overly intellectual in the process.

John quirked an eyebrow up and smirked. “Oh? So that’s the only reason you like it?”

“Of course,” Sherlock snapped.

“I think you just like seeing guys run around in tight shorts,” John teased.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, expression guarded, before he seemed to decide that John wasn’t trying to be cruel. A slow, barely there smile tugged up at his lips. “It might have something to do with that, yes,” he conceded. “The tackling isn’t terrible to watch, either.”

John laughed, feeling buoyant. So Sherlock liked watching rugby men, and John was a rugby man, and maybe he did have a chance with this incredibly gorgeous angel of a man after all. “I knew it,” he said, triumphant. “You’ve got normal interests, too.”

Sherlock’s expression looked a bit pinched, and John had no idea what caused that. He didn’t get the chance to ask, even though he knew by now that Sherlock wouldn’t want to talk about it even if he had asked. “Yes, well, I’m not sure observing rugby men is necessarily ‘normal,’ so sorry to disappoint you on that front,” was the response Sherlock offered.

John started to wonder if Sherlock was offended at being called normal, but that didn’t seem to fit with what was happening o far. “It’s fine,” he hastened to say, wanting to smooth over whatever had caused Sherlock’s mood to drop. “Normal is boring anyway.”

That hesitant smile was back. John beamed, feeling successful. “It is, isn’t it?” Sherlock said.

Their conversation from that point on flowed easily and freely, and it seemed they had reached a sort of equilibrium. Sherlock was just so easy to talk to. Their personalities seemed to be entirely complementary, which was not something he’d ever felt with anyone before. Granted, that was mostly because he had a bit of a temper and a general disinterest for most people, but it seemed like Sherlock had similar issues, being quick to close off himself and equally disinterested in others. Except for John, apparently. Sherlock listened with rapt attention while John spoke, sometimes finishing his thought for him by deducing the ends of his sentences. It was probably the most clichéd, romantic thing he’d ever experienced.

“—and when I was looking at the injection site, I saw that the marks couldn’t have possibly been self-inflicted like reported,” Sherlock was saying, nearly two hours in, while he explained how he’d become involved with an actual murder case through one of the bodies in the cadaver lab. God, he was brilliant.

At that moment, John was distracted from Sherlock’s cleverness as he saw four of his teammates approach the café. _Shit,_ he thought, ducking his head away so that they wouldn’t see him when they walked in.

“—because the man was right-handed, and to get the injection mark at the angle, he would have needed to—“

Fuck, they really were coming in, and then they would see him with Sherlock, and they would insist on sitting with them, and then this nice little private moment would be shattered by embarrassing idiots who called themselves his friends. John couldn’t risk them making him seem less cool in front of the man he was trying to woo. Christ, this was a disaster.

Sherlock had stopped speaking and was now looking intently over at John. “Why are you sitting like that?” he asked, still smiling uncertainly, as if he wanted to be in on the joke but didn’t yet know what it was. He glanced up and saw John’s rugby mates. His smile dropped, and for a split second, he looked hurt before his expression shuttered off entirely. “Oh,” he said, as if understanding everything.

John grimaced. “Yeah. I didn’t know they’d be here, or I would have chosen another spot for us to meet.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched at that, which John assumed meant he really didn’t want to be near any members of the rugby team. “It’s no problem,” he said, and his words were stiff, losing the easy flow of their earlier conversation. And then, to John’s surprise, he stood up and started gathering his things. He put his coat on and shoved his phone in his pocket.

On impulse, John stood up as well. “What are you doing?” he asked, confused.

“Leaving.” Sherlock didn’t look him in the eye, instead choosing to look anywhere but at John. “I understand that this is an awkward situation for you, so I’m removing myself from it.”

“We could just go somewhere else?” John suggested, unwilling to let this day end.

“Not necessary.” Sherlock did look up at him then, and John was surprised at the hardness in his gaze. “Besides, another friend of yours might walk in if we were to relocate, and we can’t risk them seeing you on a date with me, can we?”

John, speaking without thinking, jumped on the most interesting part of that statement, which for him was the affirmation of the romantic nature of their meeting. “This is a date?” John said, wanting to hear it said again. That was a mistake.

Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut, and the colour drained from his face. “My assumption was clearly incorrect,” he said, sounding completely detached now. “I won’t make that mistake again.” He pulled a few notes out of his wallet and tossed them on the table. “That ought to be enough to cover the cost of my coffee. Goodbye, John.” Before John could respond, Sherlock stepped around the table, neatly standing just slightly too far at any given moment for John to be able to reach out and grab him, and quicker than John could process what was happening, Sherlock left the café.

John’s mates had finally spotted him after that little scene, and they grinned, oblivious, as they approached him.

“Didn’t see you there,” Murray said. He seemed to detect John’s solemnity at that point, and his smile dipped down into a frown. “What’s the matter?” He looked at the table, spotting the two mugs. “Were you with someone?”

John nodded slowly, still staring out the window, though Sherlock had long since disappeared from view.

“Oh,” Lestrade teased, coming up, “was the captain on a date?”

John didn’t have time to roll his eyes at the comment, too preoccupied with trying to figure out what had spooked Sherlock. “Well, yeah, but then he ran off.”

Murray and Lestrade gave him sympathetic looks that he ignored. Neither of them commented on John’s being out with a man, as John’s bisexuality wasn’t exactly a secret. “Why would he do that?” Murray asked.

“I have no idea,” John replied honestly.

\---

Hours later, he sat in his room, replaying the events of the day in his head for the millionth time. He kept trying to convince himself that this was all for the best. He’d be enlisted in a few years, and he didn’t need for the two of them to get attached to one another just to be ripped apart. Really, this was the easiest possible option for both parties involved.

And yet, his stomach turned as he conjured up Sherlock’s expression just before he’d left—so full of disappointment, pain, sadness. John felt like a monster for putting that look there, even if he didn’t know what he’d done to make it happen.

It took him three hours to craft the text, simply reading, _It can be a date if you want. JW_. It felt like a lame attempt at getting their conversation started again, and apparently Sherlock thought so, too, because he never responded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have a lot of time off after next week, so hopefully I can have the next chapter up by next Sunday-ish (but don't hold me to that too hard lol)! You can find me on tumblr [here](https://beeeskneees.tumblr.com/). Comments/kudos are always appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John gets a second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter! I think this one is actually on time! The next one will hopefully be up in the next two weeks!

John had tried texting Sherlock the day after their failed date, but as expected, there had been no response. He wasn’t known for quitting, though, so he hadn’t let that get him down. Instead, he’d sent another text, and then another, and then another, but all of his texts over those next few days went unanswered.

_Hey, how are you? JW_

_Can we talk? JW_

_I had fun the other day. JW_

_I’d like to do that again if you’re up for it. JW_

Nothing. No acknowledgment from Sherlock at all. Not so much as a _Piss off. SH_ , though that would have been an incredibly disheartening thing to receive.

After the last one he’d sent, John had almost thought he was going to get something back. Those telltale three dots had appeared in the corner of his phone, suggesting that Sherlock was crafting a reply. John’s heart had leapt. He’d admittedly been a bit distressed since they’d last seen one another, and he was desperate to talk to Sherlock again. But his hope was short-lived, as the three dots disappeared without any text coming through.

After that, John knew for certain that Sherlock was reading his messages without bothering to respond to any of them. He knew that could have been because Sherlock was no longer interested in him, and, yes, that would explain the lack of reply, but they had gotten on so well at Speedy’s that John somewhat doubted that was the case. Still, he stopped texting, wanting to formulate his next move before he started pestering Sherlock again.

“Maybe he’s embarrassed,” Mike offered over drinks on a Wednesday afternoon, because John was _that_ desperate to talk things over that he hardly cared how sad and empty the pub was at that time. “I mean, he said it was a date, and you kind of made it seem like it wasn’t. Could just feel awkward about that.”

John had told Mike the full story a few hours prior, when Mike had come upon John, sitting at their shared dump of a flat, obviously moping.

“Girl troubles?” Mike had asked.

John, grimacing, had shaken his head. “Guy troubles.”

“Is this guy the one you’ve been texting non-stop for weeks?”

John had nodded, and Mike had slapped him on the back and invited him out to the pub, saying, “Tell me everything.”

Now, there they were, two hours later, trying to figure out how John could crawl his way out of the hole he’d apparently dug for himself with the one interesting person he’d ever met.

“Why would he be embarrassed?” John asked, hands wrapped around his pint in a way that reminded him of how Sherlock had held onto his mug, and, god, he was in deep here. “It was a misunderstanding. That’s all. I wanted it to be a date.” He groaned and dropped his head down onto the table. “And then Murray and Lestrade came in with a few other guys from the team, and they ruined everything.” Even as he said it, John knew that it hadn’t been them who had ruined anything; it had been him. He’d handled the situation so poorly. “ _Fuck_ ,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head against the table. “I was trying to hide from them so they wouldn’t scare Sherlock off, but I think he thought I was ashamed to be seen with him.”

Without lifting his head up, John could feel Mike wince across from him. “Christ, that’s bad,” he said, clearly feeling sorry for Sherlock.

Hell, John felt sorry for Sherlock, too. He heaved a sigh. “I know. I wouldn’t want to talk to me, either.”

Mike patted him on the back. “Well, you can try showing him that you’re not ashamed to be seen with him. Invite him out again?”

“Already tried that,” John mumbled hopelessly. But then an idea struck him. It would prove to Sherlock that he wasn’t embarrassed to be seen with him around his team, and it would give Sherlock a chance to see that John’s teammates were the worst so that he would agree never to spend time with them again. If pulled off correctly, it might be able to fix the mess John had inadvertently created for himself. He lifted his head up from the table and stared over at Mike. “Do we have a team dinner scheduled after the match next Friday?” he asked.

Mike furrowed his brow, clearly confused at the sudden change of subject. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”

John smiled. “Set one up. Friday. Angelo’s. Eight o’clock.”

Understanding seemed to dawn on Mike, who started to smile back. “You got it.”

\---

John waited until that Monday to text Sherlock again. He’d needed to get all of his teammates on board first before he could really commit to going through with this.

“If you scare him off,” he had warned them gravely, “I’ll make you all do sprints for an extra two hours after every practice for the rest of the year.” He had sounded serious enough that none of them had dared to defy him.

With their cooperation all but assured, John pulled out his phone and prayed that Sherlock hadn’t blocked his number.

_Remember that awkward dinner I had with my rugby mates a few weeks back? JW_

As expected, there was no reply immediately forthcoming. He had known that would be the case, but his heart was still hammering in his chest. This was a big risk, but the only other option was to not try talking to Sherlock again, and John found that he was really opposed to that possibility. He waited nearly an hour, just to be sure Sherlock wasn’t going to reply, before sending a follow-up message.

_Well, there’s another one this Friday, and instead of letting me sit there awkwardly by myself again, I wanted to know it you’d come with me. JW_

John had gotten good at reading Sherlock through text, so he knew that Sherlock always took a particularly long time to respond at any suggestion of intimacy. John had just asked him out, after all, so the suggestion of intimacy was perhaps more evident than it had ever been before. Awkwardness on Sherlock’s part, it seemed to be, and John thought it was mostly adorable, though at that moment it was terrifying more than anything else.

Finally, after about an hour, his phone buzzed.

_You want us to collectively thirteenth- and fourteenth-wheel with your teammates? SH_

John was so relieved at getting a text back that he couldn’t respond for a few minutes. When he did reply, he said, _Nope. I was actually thinking you could go as my date. JW_. And at that point it was out there. There was another long pause, because now Sherlock knew for sure that John wanted this to be a proper date, the suggestion of intimacy getting increasingly evident, and he was stating it from the beginning so as not to give off the wrong impression again.

Sherlock’s response, when it came, was less enthusiastic than John might have hoped, but he was still so pleased at the fact that they were actually talking to one another that he hardly cared.

_I don’t need your pity, John. SH_

God, and beyond just being unenthusiastic, it was also heartbreaking to see how little Sherlock thought of himself, that it was easier for him to believe that John was extending this invitation out of guilt than out of genuine interest in dating him.

_It’s not pity. JW_

Then, because he still felt like a terrible person based on how he’d acted during their last date, he added, _Now that I’ve made sure they’re not going to scare you away, I want to show you off to them. JW._

He hoped that was good enough. He’d never been good at talking about emotions, but at least now Sherlock hopefully could deduce the real reason John was trying to escape his teammates’ notice before.

The response took two full minutes.

_It’s really not a pity date, then. SH_

John texted back immediately, not wanting to keep Sherlock waiting in case he decided that this conversation wasn’t worth any delays.

_I don’t go on pity dates. JW_

When Sherlock replied back right away, John felt his stomach flutter. They were getting back into their old rhythm.

_No, you just go on dates to try to get a leg over. SH_

_Sometimes, yeah. Not with you, though. JW_

_You don’t want to have sex with me? SH_

John actually blushed at that, and it was ridiculous. He’d never been shy talking about sex before, but with Sherlock, it somehow felt different. He wasn’t sure how to explain that he’d gladly spend hours cuddling on the sofa with Sherlock and would have been just as happy to spend an entire day in bed with him. God, he was infatuated.

_I do. I mean, you’re super hot, but that’s not my end goal here. JW_

There was a bit of a pause after that, but John was growing more confident that Sherlock would eventually respond. He hadn’t told John to piss off yet, after all.

_What is your end goal? SH_

And this was it. Time to say how serious this was to him. Time to tell Sherlock precisely what he wanted. He was nervous, admittedly, but there was nothing for it.

 _To date you_. _JW_

There was another pause, this one slightly longer than the rest, and John half-wished he could go back in time and prevent himself from ever being so open. Where had that ever gotten him before, honestly? But, he couldn’t stand the thought of Sherlock not knowing precisely how serious he was about this. Those five minutes of waiting were pure agony, but in the end, it was worth it—well, maybe worth it; however good John had gotten at this, Sherlock was still difficult to read sometimes.

_Right. SH_

From what he could decipher from that message and its general tone, John suspected that Sherlock was still sceptical of his motives, but he would make sure to banish those concerns once they met up in person.

_So you’ll come? JW_

John desperately hoped for an affirmative answer, and, after another four minutes of waiting, he let out a sigh of relief.

_Yes. SH_

John’s relief was profound. He nearly jumped up and down in his excitement, but then again, he was a grown man, and he doubted that he’d ever be able to live that down. He’d already been open about his feelings once that day, and he certainly wasn’t going to do it twice in the span of ten minutes.

_Great! Really great. It’ll be at Angelo’s on Friday. 8 o’clock. I’ll wait for you outside. JW_

John didn’t receive a response to that, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t stop smiling. Sherlock had agreed to go out with him properly with the implication of wanting to continue dating in the future. Granted, it was a group date, but this way he would be able to calm any concerns Sherlock had about people seeing the two of them together.

He sent one more text off to Mike ( _I’ve got a date! JW_ ) before he set about trying to figure out what he was going to wear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I should have the next chapter up within the next two weeks! Comments/kudos always appreciated <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and John go on a (group) date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a little later than I'd said, but I apparently forgot to take into account holidays when giving my two weeks to write this, and then the new episode happened (if you want to see my excited thoughts on that, you can visit [my blog](https://beeeskneees.tumblr.com/) lol).
> 
> Anyway, here's the first half of John and Sherlock's date! I was working on writing a longer chapter encompassing their entire night together which is why it's taken so long also (I've had this section written for like two weeks but thought I was gonna add more), but I decided to just break it up into two chapters, so you'll notice that the total chapter count has gone from seven to eight. I'm working on the new seventh chapter now and it should be done soon!

John was admittedly nervous. He hadn’t been like this before any of the other dates he’d gone on recently, but Sherlock was different. Granted, this wasn’t so much a proper date as a very large dinner shared between several couples. Still, he had made his intentions clear, and now Sherlock knew that he wanted this, and, God, he was really very nervous.

Sherlock arrived precisely at eight o’clock. As he stepped out of the cab he’d evidently taken, John was struck again with just how beautiful he was. Those curls and _cheekbones_ and miles of long legs. Stunning.

Sherlock stood and saw him, and, thankfully, he smiled, albeit a bit uncertainly.

“Hey,” John said, walking up to him on the pavement.

“Hi,” Sherlock replied, still looking a bit shy, as if he wasn’t quite sure this was really happening. John understood the feeling. “Where are all of your teammates?”

“They’re all at the table,” John told him. He’d wanted to be outside when Sherlock arrived. He needed to give off a good impression to make up for his rather poor choice of words during their last interaction.

“Well, lead the way,” Sherlock said.

Feeling a bit bold, John put his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back as he led them into the restaurant. Sherlock didn’t appear to object, though he did stiffen momentarily before relaxing again. John wondered if he’d ever been on a date with someone who truly fancied him before, or if he’d just been with withholding men. Well, though John had never been good at expressing himself openly, he could at least offer Sherlock tactile acknowledgements of his affection. He wasn’t going to screw up a second attempt at a first date with someone as incredible as Sherlock by being too reserved.

It was clear once they approached the table that everyone had been waiting around to see who John’s date was. They had all been informed that he would be bringing someone with him for the first time in awhile, but none of them, save for Mike, had been privy to the knowledge of precisely who that mystery someone was. When the two sat down next to one another at the end of the table, the others kept sneaking furtive glances at Sherlock. John could tell by the awkwardness of Sherlock’s fidgeting beside him that the whole thing was making him uncomfortable, and he tried to help by placing a hand on Sherlock’s knee. He was kept from regretting that decision when Sherlock’s palm immediately covered his hand.

Lestrade, who was seated beside John, leaned over and whispered, “Christ, John, he looks young, doesn’t he?”

John rolled his eyes. “He’s twenty, and you can talk to him, you know. He can hear you.”

Lestrade had the decency to look a bit embarrassed, and Sherlock only offered him a tight-lipped smile to indicate that he didn’t take offense.

“So how long have you two been dating?” Murray asked Sherlock. “John’s been really private about you. It must be serious.” He winked, and John ducked his head down, mortified at Sherlock hearing that John thought this was serious.

Sherlock, oddly enough, seemed to gain some confidence from John’s embarrassment, and he squeezed John’s hand where it still rested on his knee. “This is only our second date,” he said, glancing over at John as if for confirmation, “but we were talking for a few weeks before we went out.”

John’s mates start trying to get information about their relationship (if it could even be called that, new as it was) from Sherlock, and Sherlock continued to give them very matter-of-fact, if vague, answers. He was perfectly civil—friendly, even—but John could still feel some tension in his responses. He wondered if Sherlock hung out with people like this very often, and it made him a bit sad to imagine that Sherlock probably wasn’t invited to be ‘one of the gang’ very often. He would protect Sherlock from ever being excluded again, he decided. This beautiful, perfect creature was too good to be made to feel inadequate, after all.

“You’re staring,” Sherlock murmured, turning to face John.

John blinked and straightened up a bit. He had been staring, he realised. While the team had been interrogating his date, he’d just been caught up in looking at him, in thinking about him. A bit embarrassing, that, but he wasn’t sorry about being caught. “You’re incredibly captivating,” he said, and he knew it sounded overly romantic, but he figured that Sherlock could use a little more romance.

Indeed, Sherlock’s cheeks turned the lightest shade of pink, and he smiled—a real, soft smile, not the stiff one he’d been wearing while talking to John’s teammates. “Flatterer,” he accused, but he was still grinning.

John smiled back and turned his hand over so that he could twine their fingers together.

After that, dinner went relatively smoothly while they ordered food and ate it. John hardly cared about Sherlock leaving a good impression on any of his teammates. All that mattered was that Sherlock saw that John didn’t mind them being seen in public together. That meant that it was going to be a relatively low-stress night for him. And indeed it was, right up until someone asked Sherlock what he wanted to do after university.

“I think I’d like to solve crimes,” he answered.

Lestrade perked up at that. “I’m thinking of joining NSY. We could go in together.”

Sherlock grimaced. “I don’t imagine I’ll actually work for Scotland Yard. I’ll probably be a private consultant of some sort.”

“You’ll be good at that,” John said, staring again, and he meant it, though he was fairly certain that Sherlock would have been good at anything, clever as he was. He turned to his teammates. “When we first met, it was because I’d texted the wrong number, and this one”—he nudged Sherlock with his shoulder—“was able to tell me what I’d been doing the night before and all sorts of things about myself. Bloody genius, he is.”

Everyone seemed interested at that point, most other conversations dying down, and Sherlock seemed to be a bit less tense at that point, perhaps because he really was confident in his abilities. _Good_ , John thought. _He’s clever, and he shouldn’t doubt that_.

“Go on,” Murray said. “Give us a demonstration.” His eyes lit up. “I’ve got it. See if you can tell who shagged last night.”

Sherlock started to smile, apparently liking the chance to show off his talent for deduction. “I can do that.” And he sounded excited. “To avoid repetition, I’ll just focus on the rugby players,” he said, and he scanned his eyes around the table. When he was done, he nodded, his smile growing wider. “You.” He pointed at Murray. “You.” He indicated Lestrade. “And you.” He pointed at Sebastian Wilkes. “You’re the only three on the team that slept with anyone last night, in spite of the fact that you”—he now pointed to Rowland—“were trying to make people think that you’d gotten some.”

Rowland’s girlfriend playfully smacked him on the arm. “Cheeky bastard,” she said.

Lestrade and his girlfriend looked a bit sheepish, but Murray and his boyfriend high-fived one another, clearly unashamed. The only one having an adverse reaction, John noted, was Wilkes, who was glaring at Sherlock viciously.

“You hooked up with someone last night?” Wilkes’ girlfriend asked, voice low. “I knew it. I knew that thing about needing to study was bullshit.”

“No,” Wilkes said, though his anger was still keeping his focus on John’s date instead of his own. “He’s a damn liar is what he is.”

“He was right about everyone else.” Wilkes’ girlfriend stood up and gathered her things. “Don’t bother calling me tonight.”

With that, she left, and Wilkes stared after her for a moment before turning to glare over at Sherlock. “What did you have to do that for?” His voice was dripping venom.

“Calm down,” Lestrade said, trying to be the reasonable adult in this situation. “It’s not his fault you were cheating on Katie.”

Wilkes didn’t look deterred. “Next time keep your pathetic little _trick_ to yourself, you _freak_.”

John stood up, pulling his hand from Sherlock’s in the process. He clenched his hands into fists. “Oi, watch it,” he said, voice deadly.

“I’ll watch what I’m saying when your little sideshow date does the same,” Wilkes spat.

John didn’t even hesitate, just reached out and grabbed Wilkes by the collar from across the table. Other patrons were staring, and John knew that the only reason the whole group hadn’t been kicked out by now was because the owner was known to like them well enough. “Do not ever talk to him again,” John growled. “You’re not good enough to be in the same room as him. Get your things and _leave_.” He shoved him away, chest heaving as he fought the urge to just punch him. Wilkes muttered profanities under his breath, but he didn’t object to John’s demand, and before too long, the bastard had thankfully vacated the premises.

John only sat down when he couldn’t see Wilkes’ ugly mug anymore. His adrenaline was still going, and he tried to calm himself back down. He glanced over at Sherlock, prepared to apologise for Wilkes being such an arse, when he caught sight of Sherlock’s expression. It was stricken, though he was clearly trying valiantly to keep himself looking unaffected, and John’s heart broke for him. He clearly hadn’t meant to upset anyone, and he had just been trying to show off his deductions, and he had been so happy and confident going into this, and John would never forgive Wilkes for making Sherlock look like he did right then. John put his arm around him and pulled him close. Sherlock was tense, but he did at least lean into John a bit.

“God, what a tool,” he said to Sherlock while everyone else went back to anxious small talk.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” Sherlock said, not even hearing him, apparently. “That wasn’t my intention.” And while he outwardly seemed mostly composed, his voice, tight and distressed, belied that composure.

John picked up one of Sherlock’s hands and brought it to his lips briefly. “Don’t worry about it. Wilkes is the worst, and that cheating bastard deserves to have his night ruined.” Sherlock still looked stiff and a bit lifeless, though, so John kissed Sherlock’s cheek and murmured, “That was a brilliant deduction, by the way. Absolutely amazing, you know that?”

Sherlock looked over at him at that, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You think so?”

John smiled widely and nodded. “Yeah, definitely. I think you could really be good at that detective business.”

Sherlock looked a little more at ease, and he leaned against John more heavily. “Yeah, I know.”

Sherlock didn’t entirely relax, and he seemed to grow more closed off when talking to the others. He remained relatively open with John, though, so that felt like a success regardless.  He only hoped he could keep it up for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update should be soon! The next chapter will be the second half of their date night, and after that, it'll be a little epilogue! I'll try to have the next chapter up within the next week or so. Comments/kudos appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they finish their date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The explicit rating comes into effect in this chapter! Be warned!

John paid for their meal, finally accomplishing what he’d tried to do back at the café nearly two weeks prior.

“I’m capable of covering my own meal,” Sherlock had argued.

John had merely smiled. “That’s not the point of this,” he had said.

“What is the point, then?” Sherlock had looked ready to argue further.

John had rolled his eyes, but his smile had still been in place. “The point is to woo you, smart arse,” he’d said. “Let me do that, yeah?”

At that, Sherlock had stopped arguing, and he’d ducked his head away to hide a smile. John counted that as another success on his part for the night.

And now they were standing outside on the pavement. All of John’s rugby mates had dispersed already, leaving just the two of them. This was always the most awkward part of a date, in John’s opinion. He wasn’t sure if it was going to end here or continue, and he didn’t know whether or not Sherlock would even be comfortable with the latter option.

Sherlock flagged down a cab, and that seemed to be the end. John held onto his hand until Sherlock approached the car. He had been prepared to just walk to the nearest tube station, but Sherlock had turned to face him right then.

“Do you want to come back to my flat?” he asked, and though his face betrayed no shyness, his hands were fidgeting nervously.

John grinned at him. “How can I refuse an offer like that?” he said, and he slid into the back of the cab after Sherlock.

The two of them seemingly couldn’t stop smiling throughout the duration of the cab ride. It was ridiculous being this giddy during a date. John wondered if Sherlock had ever felt like this before, but he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to that.

Before long, they arrived at 221B Baker Street, the address Sherlock had given the cabbie. It was a surprisingly nice location for a university student’s flat. John admired the street a bit as Sherlock unlocked the door before he was tugged inside.

The door to 221A opened almost as soon as they entered the building, though Sherlock had already made a mad dash up the stairs. John wasn’t quite as fast, and, besides, he was curious as to what Sherlock’s neighbour was like.

“Oh, hello,” an older woman from 221A said, smiling pleasantly over at John. “Are you one of Sherlock’s friends?”

Sherlock groaned from where he stood on the steps, almost inside his own flat but seemingly unwilling to abandon John. Kind of him, that. “I’ve told you a million times, Mrs. Hudson. I don’t have _friends_. I have _clients_.”

John laughed a little. He imagined Sherlock thought that made him sound cool and unattached. It was sort of cute. “I’m John Watson,” he said, holding a hand out toward Mrs. Hudson.

The old woman’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I’ve heard so much about you,” she told him.

At that point, Sherlock came bounding back down the stairs and stood next to John, tugging on his arm, but John refused to budge, his curiosity piqued. “What have you heard?” he asked eagerly, smirking over at Sherlock.

Sherlock glared over at Mrs. Hudson. “Don’t you dare answer that,” he threatened.

Mrs. Hudson merely laughed and patted his arm, as if to say, _Silly boy_. “Well, Sherlock told me all about how you’re a rugby star and that you’re going into the army.” She winked over at Sherlock. “We all know he likes that type.”

Sherlock let out a sound like he was dying and put his hands over his face.

John couldn’t help but smile wider. So Sherlock liked an army man. That was certainly good to know. It didn’t quite explain in John’s mind why Sherlock clammed up whenever the topic of the military arose in their conversations, but he made a note to just ask Sherlock about that later.

Mrs. Hudson leaned closer to him and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Between you and me,” she murmured to John, “I’ve never seen him so love struck before.”

And now Sherlock positively collapsed back onto the stairs in a dramatic sprawl like he was being murdered in a Shakespearian production. Mrs. Hudson looked at him affectionately, and John laughed. He knelt down next to Sherlock and tried to kiss him, but Sherlock’s hands were still covering his face, so the best John could do was lean forward to kiss Sherlock’s knuckles where they blocked his cheek.

“Love struck, huh?” he said, absolutely elated.

Sherlock spread his fingers apart just enough so that John could see the glare that was being directed at him.

John laughed again. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve been a little love struck, too.”

Sherlock didn’t react obviously, but his posture seemed to relax a bit, and John could tell he was smiling behind his hands.

Mrs. Hudson looked fondly at the two of them. “Well, I’m about to take one of my herbal soothers—for my hip, you know—so I’ll let you boys go. It was a pleasure to meet you, John.”

“Same to you, Mrs. Hudson.” He smiled after her as she retreated back into 221A.

Once they were alone again, John gently tugged Sherlock’s hands off of his face. “There you are,” he said.

Sherlock’s embarrassment seemed to fade when he caught sight of John’s expression. “Here I am,” he agreed.

“I can’t imagine these stairs are very comfortable to lie on,” John said, standing up. “Besides, I can’t wait to see the state of your flat.”

Sherlock got to his feet and started back up the stairs. His hands started to fidget anxiously again. “I can clean this up,” he assured John once they entered 221B. He went over to the coffee table and stacked two books on top of one another.

John looked around. It was eclectic and sort of a mess, but he thought that this was probably what the inside of Sherlock’s mind looked like. Thinking about it like that made the whole thing seem really appealing rather than off-putting. “Don’t worry about that. If you saw my flat, you’d see that it’s much worse.”

Sherlock turned around and studied John for a moment. “It might be worse, but that’s because of your flat-mates and not because of you.”

John shook his head, smiling. “Brilliant. How’d you know?”

Sherlock looked pleased at the praise, as he always did, and turned away from the mess on the coffee table to face John fully. “Your nails are meticulously clean. So are your clothes. The lines in them indicate that they’re folded with precision before you wear them. They’re not expensive, but you take care of them. That indicates a long-standing personal habit of ordered cleanliness. A man like that wouldn’t have a messy flat.”

John was, as always, impressed. “ _Your_ clothes are folded properly,” he pointed out playfully, “and your nails look pretty clean, too.”

Sherlock smiled back at him. “My clothes are expensive. Of course I’m going to take care of them. And I have a high level of overall personal grooming, so that’s more related to how I look than a habit of cleanliness. You put a bit of product in your hair and that’s it. Your nails are clean for a different reason than mine, then.”

John walked forward until they were standing nearly toe-to-toe. “You are a genius,” he told Sherlock, lifting one hand to cup his cheek.

Sherlock’s smile dropped a bit, though his expression remained open. “I know,” he murmured, tone softer than before.

John placed another hand on Sherlock’s waist and pressed himself upward until their lips touched. He moved slowly so as not to spook Sherlock, but apparently that was entirely unnecessary on his part. As soon as the kiss began, Sherlock crouched down so that John didn’t need to stand on his toes and returned the pressure with a shocking amount of enthusiasm. John hummed at this development before licking at the seam between Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock let out a little gasp and took another half-step forward until they were entirely pressed together. He wrapped his arms around John’s neck and parted his lips to mimic John’s movements. God, it was incredible. John held onto him tighter, as if worried he might slip away, and Sherlock practically melted in his arms.

He pulled back after a few moments, barely able to do that now that Sherlock was apparently getting the hang of the act of kissing, and he pressed their foreheads together. “Christ, I could do that all night,” he murmured.

Sherlock huffed out a laugh, clearly happy, before his cheeks started to turn a bit pinker. “I think I know something else you might like to do for the rest of the night,” he said, quirking one eyebrow suggestively.

John stared at him in open amazement. Sherlock was rarely that forward, in his experience, and he could only assume this meant that Sherlock was finally warming up to him. “Oh, God, yes,” he breathed, and he leaned up to press their lips together again, unable to survive without another kiss.

Sherlock kissed back enthusiastically, and, really, once he figured out the motions, he was an incredible kisser. John shouldn’t have been surprised. Sherlock seemed the sort to master any skill in a ridiculously short period of time. It would have seemed unfair if John hadn’t been benefiting greatly from it at that point.

John pulled back, having to practically force himself to do so. “You’re sure about this?” he asked, hating the thought that he was pressuring Sherlock into this.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried to act self-assured, but his hands were trembling a bit.

John immediately took a half-step back, putting distance between them. “We can just watch telly or something.”

Sherlock instantly walked forward to close the gap between them. “No, I want this,” he said, determined. “Promise.”

John furrowed his brow. “Answer me honestly, yeah? Is this your first time?”

Sherlock looked away, and that was response enough, really.

John sighed and rubbed his hand up and down Sherlock’s arm in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. “We really don’t need to do anything tonight.”

Sherlock turned back to John, a resolute expression firmly in place. “I _want_ to do this.” After a moment of hesitation, he mumbled, “I just don’t know _how_ to do this.”

He seemed so put out at what he probably perceived as an intellectual failing that John had to lean forward and kiss his pouting lips again. “We won’t do anything too complicated,” he assured Sherlock in the brief moment he allowed their mouths to be separated.

This time it was Sherlock who broke the kiss entirely. “Come on,” he said, and he took John’s hand and led him down the hall toward what must have been Sherlock’s bedroom. In contrast to the remainder of the flat, it was very tidy. There was no clutter on the floor or the furniture, unlike the sitting room. John caught sight of a framed picture of the periodic table, and he couldn’t help but smile. Why was he growing fonder at every new revelation about Sherlock? It was ridiculous. Not that he was going to try backing away to stop it. No, he would let it happen, and he hoped that it wouldn’t end up biting him in the arse.

Sherlock took John’s face in his hand and pressed a firm kiss to his lips. “If you aren’t thinking about having sex with me, then you’re thinking about the wrong thing,” he said, and John just adored how he seemed to be growing more comfortable in their arrangement, how he was confident enough now to say things like that, how even after seeming so vulnerable mere moments before he was opening himself up to John.

John smirked at him. “Sherlock, love, I can assure you that there’s always a small part of my brain that’s thinking about having sex with you.”

Sherlock smiled and kicked off his shoes before lying down on the neatly made bed. “Prove it,” he said, like a playful challenge.

John grinned and, after removing his shoes as well, climbed on top of him on the bed. He placed his arms on either side of Sherlock’s head and straddled his hips. John’s hips pressed against Sherlock’s, and he groaned, his forehead dropping down against Sherlock’s. Christ, he hadn’t even realised how hard he was, and now here was the proof. Sherlock let out a gasp below him and bucked up, his own clothed erection rubbing against John’s. John kissed him again, keeping it light at first to attempt to keep at least some part of this chaste. He didn’t want to go too fast too soon and scare Sherlock off. Sherlock was having none of that, though, and he kissed back passionately, sloppily, as he ground his hips upward and whimpered into John’s mouth.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he murmured, breaking away from the kiss. He rolled them over so that Sherlock was on top of him. Sherlock immediately braced his hands against the headboard, while John’s hands came up to grip Sherlock’s arse. He might have worried about going too fast with someone so inexperienced, but Sherlock keened and rocked back into his hands, apparently enjoying it. John used his grip to encourage Sherlock to thrust against him, grinding their hips together in a deliciously pleasurable way. The image of Sherlock riding him like this popped into his head, and he bit back a moan.

“Yeah, that’s it, baby,” he said, watching as a flush crawled up Sherlock’s neck and into his cheeks. “So hot. Just like that.”

Sherlock whimpered again, his movements speeding up. John wanted to see him so badly, wanted to expose them both to one another, but he didn’t want to derail their current momentum. Another time, he told himself. Another time they could try this unclothed, and, oh, maybe Sherlock would want to ride him, and he could have this new fantasy acted out.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed, gripping Sherlock’s arse harder and increasing the pressure between them. “Do you see what you’re doing to me? God, you’re beautiful. Yeah, keep going.”

Sherlock was letting out little noises at each exhale by that point, and he seemed to be rapidly losing control. It was the hottest thing John had ever seen in his entire life.

“You’re getting close, aren’t you?” he asked, knowing that he wouldn’t receive a verbal answer. “Wish you could see yourself like this. Fucking perfection, you are.”

Sherlock rutted against him hard, his eyes squeezing shut, mouth open as a surprised _oh, oh, oh_ escaped his lips. John could feel it the moment he came, could feel the way Sherlock’s body tightened against his, the way his cock grew harder, the way his hips stuttered in their movements, thrusting faster and faster before stopping altogether with jittery over-stimulation. It was, as John had previously said, so fucking hot. He couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He flipped them over again, Sherlock now a boneless mess sprawled on his back, having just come in his pants because of a frotting session. John, kneeling next to Sherlock’s shoulder, unzipped his jeans and pulled them and his pants down just enough to take his cock in hand.

“You’re a goddamn treasure, you know that?” he murmured, hissing a bit as he started to stroke his cock. He looked down at Sherlock, at those sweaty curls and that flushed face and those wide, dreamy eyes. God, the way Sherlock had looked when he’d come had been the most incredible thing John had ever seen. John would never be able to come back from having seen it.

His movements started to grow faster, sloppier, and he was so wrapped up in it that he barely noticed Sherlock rolling onto his side. It was only when he felt a tongue press against the head of his cock that he realised what had happened, and at that point, he was practically out of his mind with pleasure. “Oh, fuck, oh, fuck,” he said, stopping his hand as Sherlock leaned forward, still completely lying down, to take the head of John’s cock into his mouth. Sherlock made eye contact with him, no longer looking completely dazed. He was watching John for his reaction, and John couldn’t do much more than drop his head back and swear vigorously up at the ceiling. He had the image of Sherlock’s mouth stretched out around him forever burned into his mind. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t be able to take more than half of him in his mouth at once, but the thought of Sherlock doing anything even remotely like this was almost too much to handle. While Sherlock continued sucking on the head, John started moving his hand around the rest of his length, effectively jerking himself off into Sherlock’s mouth, and, oh, fuck, this was the best he’d ever had.

As he felt himself getting close, he reached out and tugged on Sherlock’s hair in warning, but Sherlock only groaned and worked harder. John realised that he wasn’t going to remove his lips, and he took one last look down at the most erotic sight he’d ever seen before he was coming. His hand in Sherlock’s hair tightened automatically, effectively holding him in place, while he spilled himself into Sherlock’s mouth.

When he was done, he released Sherlock’s hair and let go of his own softening erection. Sherlock leaned back slowly, licking at the head and swallowing. John groaned at the sight and felt his cock twitch half-heartedly. He immediately bent down and kissed Sherlock again, faintly able to taste himself on Sherlock’s tongue. When he was too exhausted to stay in that position any longer, he broke the kiss and flopped onto his back on the bed. Sherlock immediately rolled over and wrapped around him, head on John’s shoulder.

John wondered if he should leave, if Sherlock would even want him to stay the night, but he didn’t have it in him to bring it up after such an incredible evening. That would be a problem for the morning, he decided, or for when Sherlock woke up enough to kick him out. For now, he was going to enjoy this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! Comments/kudos are always appreciated. 
> 
> The final chapter will be up within the next few days (it's written and essentially just needs to be read through again, so I won't keep you all hanging with my inaccurate self-imposed deadlines).


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they enjoy the morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The final chapter! I hope you all enjoy it!

John woke up the following morning feeling warmer and more comfortable than he had in quite some time, and he knew it was all because of Sherlock. Physically that was true, of course, because Sherlock hadn’t moved from his position curled up half on top of John during the night, but it was also true in a more abstract sense as well. He couldn’t believe that he was this happy because of a wrong number weeks prior. It was so unlikely that they met, and he wasn’t sure how he would have handled never knowing Sherlock. Not that they knew each other very well, of course, but it still seemed _right_ to have Sherlock in his life in some capacity. He could really imagine this developing into a proper relationship, which was not something he was used to.

Sherlock popped his head up after a short while, his hair soft and frizzy, his eyes groggy with sleep but still somehow bright with concern. He studied John for a long moment, and John wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for. There was a pinched frown on his lips, as if preparing himself for disappointment. John might have been worried that he was unwelcome in Sherlock’s bed, but the man was still clinging to him. Eventually, Sherlock seemed to relax, and his frown softened into something else entirely.

“You’re thinking far too much for a Sunday morning,” he said, his voice rough and scratchy from just waking up. He dropped his head down to John’s shoulder once more.

John smiled at him. “If I say I’m thinking about you, does that make it any better?” he asked.

Sherlock pretended to think for a moment. “It might.” John could feel him smiling against his skin.

John pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head, and the arms around him tightened and released. It was, all in all, a perfect moment.

They took nearly an hour to actually get out of bed, though they did very little talking in that time. It was mostly soft touches and gentle kisses, and John never wanted it to end. Eventually, though, the smell of breakfast wafting in from the kitchen roused them both, with Sherlock’s stomach growling to betray his assurances that he wasn’t hungry at all.

John was the first to get up, only having to pull his pants and jeans back into place to be finished dressing. Sherlock, on the other hand, rolled around on the bed for nearly fifteen minutes, claiming to be incapable of getting up. John couldn’t help but smile fondly at him. And when Sherlock finally did get up, he complained the entire time.

(“You got semen all over my nice pants,” he said, grimacing as he shifted his legs.

“As I remember,” John countered with a smile, “it’s _your_ semen that’s all over your nice pants.”

Sherlock shot a half-hearted glare at him. “But it’s _your_ fault it’s there in the first place.”

John laughed, and he would have felt guilty about ruining Sherlock’s undoubtedly expensive pants had it not been for the fact that Sherlock was fighting back a smile even as he complained.)

“Mrs. Hudson’s been here,” Sherlock said when they ultimately walked out into the kitchen. A tray of eggs and toast had been set out on top of a stack of paper on the kitchen table.

“Mrs. Hudson makes you breakfast?” John asked, examining the spread.

Sherlock shrugged, picking up a slice of toast and tearing off a small piece of it for himself. “Sometimes. She thinks I don’t eat enough.”

John glanced over him and, though Sherlock was slender, he didn’t seem unhealthily so. “Well, that’s what I’m here for,” he said with a smile. “Boyfriends feed one another up and all that.”

Sherlock stared at some point in the air in front of him, blinking rapidly, for a solid twenty seconds.

John started to backpedal. “Sorry. I was just joking. I wasn’t trying to be… presumptuous.”

“Boyfriends?” Sherlock repeated, still not quite looking at him.

John cleared is throat. “I mean, we’d obviously have to talk about it more, but I wouldn’t be opposed to this turning into a proper relationship.”

Sherlock stared and blinked and generally looked vacant enough that John worried he’d broken him somehow.

“Sherlock?” he asked tentatively, taking a step closer and resting a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Look, it doesn’t have to mean anything.”

He felt foolish for reading into this so much. He might have been totally gone on Sherlock, but that certainly didn’t mean that Sherlock wanted the same thing. Hell, Sherlock might not have wanted him to stay the night, and now he had messed everything up, and he was just going to move out of the country, and—

His thought process ground to a halt when Sherlock surged forward and kissed him—just once, just a hard peck, but it was enough to bring him back to the present.

“Boyfriends,” Sherlock said again, and this time it wasn’t a question.

John looked at him for a moment, trying to see if this was some sort of joke. Sherlock looked so serious, though, eyes wide and earnest, that John knew it was real. He let out a relieved laugh. “Boyfriends,” he agreed.

Sherlock beamed back at him and kissed him again, and it warmed John’s heart to see how free he was being with his emotions. Sherlock didn’t seem the sort to open up easily, but he’d apparently decided that John was worthy of seeing him without all of those layered, indifferent masks he usually wore.

John picked up the tray of food, and, as there was no room on the table, headed into the sitting room to set it down on the coffee table. Sherlock had apparently predicted this move, because by the time John had everything set, Sherlock had already taken up one half of the sofa. John moved to sit pressed against him, and though he kept both hands free to pick at the food, he made sure that half of his body was touching Sherlock at all times.

“We should do this again,” John said through a mouthful of eggs.

Sherlock quirked up an eyebrow. “What—eat breakfast?” he asked wryly.

John shook his head. “No, I mean go out on dates.” He smirked. “But if those dates end up the next morning with us sharing breakfast, I certainly wouldn’t complain.”

Sherlock’s cheeks turned the lightest shade of pink, and he shook his head and smiled. “You’re insatiable,” he said, “but I’d like that.” He turned to face John more fully. “Besides, boyfriends go on dates, right?”

John nodded. “Boyfriends go on dates,” he confirmed.

Sherlock seemed content and finished off the rest of his toast. He paused for a moment longer and added, “I’m going to try working more cases with Scotland Yard, though, so I might not always be available.”

John nodded, not put off in the slightest. “Well, I’m going to be in medical school and then basic training, so I’ll probably understand you being busy.” He should have expected the way Sherlock tensed slightly beside him, but it reminded him that they needed to discuss the army a bit more. “So you like military men,” he said, recalling Mrs. Hudson’s comment the night before.

Sherlock’s face instantly turned blood red. He tried to cover his embarrassment by glaring at John. “Everyone likes a military man,” he snapped.

John quirked an eyebrow up. “Not everyone likes them so much that their landlady knows about it.”

Sherlock groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “Never speak to me again,” he muttered.

John laughed lightly but didn’t let himself be swayed from what he needed to know. “Is that the only reason you would get all quiet when I brought up the military in our texts?”

Sherlock, at the mention of that, mimicked what he’d done all those weeks ago and simply didn’t respond.

John sighed and wrapped one arm around Sherlock, trying to offer comfort for something he didn’t fully understand. “Am I still missing something?” he asked softly. Then, knowing that maybe Sherlock needed the extra push, he added, “Boyfriends should know these things about one another.”

That did it. Sherlock was still tense, and he didn’t look up, but he did sigh, and after a moment longer, he spoke. “I find military men attractive for a number of reasons. It’s a dangerous profession, which makes them moderately quick on their feet, resourceful, and strong. I like all of that.” He lifted his head at last and made eye contact with John. “But, with you—well, it’s easy to adore military men from a distance, but it’s decidedly harder to cope with the danger of it when you’re fond of one of them.”

John felt warm all over. Sherlock was _worried_ about him. It was so ridiculously sweet. He’d been scared that something would happen to John overseas. “You’re going to be in just as much danger here if you keep solving murders for Scotland Yard,” he pointed out, tone gentle.

Sherlock had been apparently prepared for that argument, because he responded right away. “But this is a city. I could be in hospital in no time at all if something happened to me. But you—you’d be in an entirely different country, and the hospital here could phone you if something happened to me, but if you’re off God knows where, then how will I even be able to figure out that something’s gone wrong with you?” He started to sound a bit panicked, and John squeezed him tighter.

“You’re already thinking that far ahead?” he asked, amazed that Sherlock really saw that much of a future with him, that Sherlock had been imagining this future for quite some time now. His basic training was still a few years off yet, after all, and they’d only just now agreed to date properly.

Sherlock blushed even more furiously and shot John another half-hearted glare. “I plan on making my living by thinking out every possible scenario, so of course I thought that far ahead.”

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. “Don’t worry, love,” he murmured. “It’s not a bad thing. It’s rather sweet. You’re worried about me.”

“Of course I am,” Sherlock muttered.

There was a beat of silence before John leaned back and pulled Sherlock against him. Sherlock went easily enough, though he still seemed a bit sulky.

“If I go overseas somewhere, I’ll Skype home as often as I can, and when I come back on leave, I can give you a medical opinion on any cases you work,” John offered, deciding that, if Sherlock was going to think that far ahead, then so could he.

Sherlock blinked for a long moment before looking up at John. “You’d do that?” he asked, as if surprised that John would even consider putting in that minimal effort in order to keep them connected during his military career.

John smiled reassuringly. “Yeah, of course I would.” He smirked, his expression turning mischievous. “I could also wear my fatigues in bed, just for you.”

Sherlock’s face flushed, and he hid it against John’s shoulder. “I hate you,” he grumbled. “You’re a terrible boyfriend, teasing me like that.”

John laughed and kissed Sherlock’s curls a few times. “I’m wounded, Sherlock, really.”

Sherlock kept his face hidden, but he wrapped his arms around John’s middle and squeezed tight. “You’re not really a terrible boyfriend,” he said, as if worried John would take it seriously.

John smiled. “You’re not really a terrible boyfriend, either.”

Sherlock looked up at him, studying him, before nodding and putting his head back down. “A terrible boyfriend would be a boring boyfriend, and I’m not boring.”

“So if I’m not a terrible boyfriend either, is that your way of calling me interesting?”

Sherlock’s eye-roll was so obvious that it was nearly audible. “Don’t fish for compliments, John.”

“My boyfriend thinks I’m interesting,” John said in a sing-song voice, enjoying this banter with Sherlock, who was indeed his boyfriend, a fact which everyone would soon know, he was sure.

Sherlock sighed loudly. “I changed my mind. I hate you again.”

“Love you, too,” John replied automatically, so deep in that teasing, sardonic mood that he didn’t register the words at first. When they hit him, he started to sweat a bit. Fuck. He’d ruined everything. It was way too early to even joke about that. What if Sherlock took it seriously? Was it serious? John wasn’t sure he felt like that yet, but he knew that it probably wasn’t going to be far off for him, and Sherlock was so quiet now, so tense, like he couldn’t believe what John had said, and John couldn’t believe it either, and, great, he’d ruined this new thing between them. He took a deep breath and said, “I’m usually a lot smoother than this.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment longer before he hummed and relaxed against John once more. “Well, you’ve got time to prove that to me.”

He had time. That sounded like a promise. All those thoughts about working together on cases and keeping in touch when John was away—all of that could happen. They had time, and now that they had worked out the basics of it all, John was confident that they would get to those far-ahead places.

And they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments/kudos appreciated!
> 
> Feel free to hit me up at [my blog](https://beeeskneees.tumblr.com/) as well!


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